Shadowman (Alabaster Penitentiary Book 5), page 9
“Did they even ask you where you got it…?”
He balks a bit, shaking his head.
Exactly. They don’t need to ask because they already know.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” I mutter, choosing to change the subject. I’d rather not stress about something I can’t control. “How was solitary?”
He snorts. “Fookin’ great. On my way back, I saw that preppy little creep… The Carver.”
“Felix Darcey?” My brows zip.
The infamous serial killer has been here for a couple of months, but we don’t see him much. They started keeping him isolated, since pandemonium tends to break out any time he’s around the rest of us.
Well, the crazier of us.
“Yeah. Got himself a cellmate,” O’Malley huffs.
Now I’m even more surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “Yeh know that new preck who came in the other day, then disappeared? Big, dumb-lookin’ fook…”
“Oh, yea…” I hum, thinking back to seeing the guy for two seconds, then never seeing him again. “His name’s Wilkerson. I just assumed he switched groups.”
O’Malley shakes his head. “He’s in a cushy, private cell with preppy boy. I heard the little nutter went on a hunger strike or some shit, demanding a cellmate. Velle must’ve caved.”
A breath puffs from my lips. “Well, that… sounds like a bad idea.”
But it doesn’t necessarily surprise me. Felix Darcey is a hot commodity in Manuel Blanco’s collection of twisted trophies. Makes sense that they’d give in to his every spoiled demand.
O’Malley laughs. “Put me in with him… I’ll fook ’im up. That boy ain’t shit.”
He jumps up and starts bouncing around, play-boxing while talking shit about The Carver. And I’m just shaking my head.
I dunno… You can never be sure what’s inside someone else’s mind, right? The kinds of secrets we hold…
Kieran O’Malley wears his issues on his sleeve. That’s one way of doing it, I guess. But I know for a fact there are certain things he refuses to talk about. Like his crimes, for example.
What he did to his little brother…
I’m sure Felix Darcey has done similar shit. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.
Crazy doesn’t always look crazy.
Thoughts are cluttering my mind, and I don’t like it. I need to get them out. Unfortunately, O’Malley is still prancing around, ranting about nonsense, and I don’t want to risk going for my secret stash spot while he’s awake. He’s fucking nosy, and while I don’t mind sharing my toothpaste or the occasional cigarette with him, there’s one hidden item I can’t have him—or anyone else, for that matter—finding.
The sudden, clunking footsteps indicative of a correctional officer up the row pause my swirling secrets. Officer Hancock comes strutting over, then stops in front of our cell.
Odd… We’re supposed to be in for the night.
“On your feet, 62,” he says vacantly, then barks at O’Malley, “You… Over there. Hug the wall.”
I gape at him before glancing at O’Malley, who looks just as uneasy as I’m sure I do.
“What is this?” O’Malley places his palms flat on the opposite wall while I stand up slowly. “I just got back!”
“I don’t care about you,” Hancock breathes out, like he’s already exhausted by the sheer act of talking to us. He nods at me. “Turn around.”
What the hell??
Rather than arguing, I do as he says, despite my internal unease. There’s no point in fighting it. I’m most likely going to solitary, or to The Box… Somewhere they can torture me because of that goddamn cellphone.
Still, I make sure to shoot O’Malley one last this is your fault look while Hancock cuffs me and drags me away. In his defense, he does appear pretty guilty. But that won’t save me from whatever the fuck they’re about to do.
Nervous chills are rushing across my skin, and I can’t help it. As hard a shell as I try to build up around myself, it’s no use. This place has a way of breaking through even the sturdiest of barriers.
I’ve been here for nearly three years. Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent that time turning myself to stone. Other times, I’m just as scared, lonely, and sad as I was the day I woke up strapped to that chair…
“Wait a minute…” I mumble. Mostly to myself, since I know Herby Hancock doesn’t care what I have to say. “We’re not going down…”
“No talking, inmate,” he growls, unsurprisingly.
But this is weird…
Why are we going… up?
Why are we crossing over… to the West Wing?
For some reason, this is causing me to shake even harder. I expected solitary, the East, The Box. I expected torture. As far as I know, none of that happens on the west side of the prison.
You’d think heading in the opposite direction of misery would be comforting, but it’s not. Not even a little.
Inmates rarely come over here. Because it’s where he is…
Hancock brings me up some stairs—actual fucking stairs! There are no stairs anywhere else in the Pen. It’s bizarre as hell, made even stranger by the fact that there actually are stairs. Just not on our side, apparently.
God, this building is like The Labyrinth meets Kubrick meets fucking M.C. Escher.
It’s insane how much higher up I feel just from walking upstairs for the first time in three years. The altitude is making me high.
Hm, that’s funny.
Hancock stops me in front of a door, silencing everything in my head. He knocks, and I’m just standing, shivering, in place, with my hands cuffed behind my back.
I’m sure I know who’s on the other side of this door… But I don’t wanna think about it.
“Come,” the voice calls, and my teeth set, a long breath leaving my lungs.
Fuck.
The door opens, and I’m shoved through, into the middle of a wide-open space. Before me is a window displaying the ocean, barely illuminated by the setting sun. A desk, large and richly brown—something like mahogany.
And of course, The Ivory. Sitting behind it, his gaze focused on the screen of a MacBook.
He’s not even paying attention to me, but I’m fidgeting in place, feeling like I’m on display. The room isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that everything feels especially spread apart right now. There’s nowhere to hide.
“You want me to take the cuffs off, sir?” Hancock asks, startling me when his voice breaks through the silence. I forgot he was there for a second.
“That’ll be all, Officer,” The Ivory sings, deliberately ignoring the question while making a condescending shoo motion with his hand.
I peer over my shoulder at Hancock while he scowls and storms off, closing the door behind him.
Shit… He’s gone.
My face slowly tilts back in the Warden’s direction, and I gulp.
Why am I here?
What does he want??
Questions litter my brain while I stand still and wait for him to say or do something. It feels like an hour before he finally sighs and closes the laptop, folding his hands on top of it.
Then he locks his black eyes on mine, and his mouth quirks. “How are you, Byron?”
I swallow another lump, mouth dry as a bone. “Um… fine.”
His eyes narrow into slits, a threatening look if I’ve ever seen one. I shift awkwardly.
“Thank you for asking. H-how are you…?”
He makes a small noise, not quite a chuckle. More of a puff of air accompanied by a smirk. He cocks his head. “I have to say, I’d be a lot better if you hadn’t stashed a cellphone in the basement rec room…”
Well, fuck me. That’s it.
I’m completely screwed.
Allowing myself a moment to sift through various responses, I watch him cautiously as he blinks up at me from his fancy-looking desk chair. “I don’t—”
“Come here, please,” he cuts me off with a stern command. I don’t want to. And my feet know that, refusing to take a step. But he hisses, “That wasn’t a request, inmate.”
The look on his face is causing a stiffness to take over my body, nerves bunching up, keeping me tense. But I have no choice but to obey him. I mean, what’s the alternative?
He’s in charge. There’s no free will here.
I’m at the mercy of Manuel Blanco.
Stepping over to his desk, I stop right in front of it, by the two chairs he has on this side. But he’s not satisfied. I can tell just from the way he’s glaring at me wordlessly. So I keep walking, taking tentative steps, while still moving briskly enough that he doesn’t yell at me for taking too long.
Now, I’m on his side of the desk, standing before him while he sits. He swivels his chair, peering up at me, displaying a more contented expression.
“There you go,” he chirps, slapping his hands down on his knees. I flinch. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What am I doing here?” I blurt out the question, a bit more hostile than I meant to sound.
But the wondering is stressing me out. I don’t like feeling vulnerable like this. I hate it, in fact.
Obviously, he likes it. It’s why he does stuff like this… Plays this cat-and-mouse game. Toying with you before he sinks his teeth in.
I’d rather he just snap my neck and get it over with.
Naturally, he stays quiet for way too long before finally responding, “I wanted to check in with you. About the cellphone.” He sits back in his chair. “Who were you planning to contact?”
He asks the question as if he already knows, and it turns my stomach. Because I’m sure he does.
“No one,” I mutter. “I wanted to play Candy Crush.”
This time, he actually laughs. Even so, it’s a low, growly, I can’t believe your audacity sort of sound.
“Byron, you seem to forget that I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt.” He lifts a light eyebrow, and I gulp. “Never once have I interfered in your affairs, or held you accountable, despite your often questionable choices…”
“Like what?” I seethe defensively. It just comes out, like the quip of a petulant child.
But he gives me an obvious look that has me shrinking into myself. “I can only hope you know what you’re doing.” He sighs. “I’d hate to see such potential squandered on some pretty blue eyes and a brilliantly deceptive mouth.”
Now my jaw is clenched so tightly, my teeth are aching. “I have no idea what you’re talking about…”
The Ivory shakes his head admonishingly, giving me that tsk-tsk bullshit. Heated shame is rushing up my neck, and it’s pissing me the fuck off. “I know it feels good in the moment, but he’ll never be your Michelangelo…”
In an instant, I’m set ablaze. His words, the match on my puddle of kerosene.
Launching at him, I lean in close, hovering over him while my chest heaves with rage. If my hands weren’t cuffed behind my back, I’d be grabbing him by the throat. Undoubtedly a terrible idea, but I can’t help it. I’m fast-fuming.
“You don’t get to say that name to me,” I snarl. “I’m done playing games. I’d rather you just slit my throat and be done with it.”
The Ivory is entirely unaffected by my threatening stance. Of course. If anything, it’s just entertaining him more. Straightening, he inches his face up to mine, holding me still with those black irises.
“My sweet Byron,” he whispers over my mouth. “Where’s the fun in that?”
In a snap, he grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me to my knees. I crash onto the floor with a wince, but I don’t have time to register the pain because his hand is around my throat.
“I cannot believe how ungrateful you’re being,” he hisses, long fingers digging into me. “Do you know that I believed you from day one, Byron? I saw the truth in you when no one else did, and this is the thanks I get?!” His tone is taking on a maniacal volume as his grip tightens, cutting off my air supply. “You should be bowing at my feet, you little shit. We’re done playing when I say we’re done fucking playing.”
Having him in my face, saying these words, is infinitely more terrifying than him choking me. He’s not loud by any means, and yet he’s roaring at me like a malicious beast. I know he could tear me to shreds with his bare hands, and he’d probably love to do it.
But Manuel Blanco’s weapon of choice has been, and always will be, his ability to get inside your head…
And turn it into his personal playground.
The fear, the way my pulse is rapping frantically beneath his palm, the deranged twinkle in his obsidian eyes… On my knees while evil bares its teeth right in front of my face. It sends an unexpected lightning bolt through my insides.
I don’t understand it, not one single fucking bit. But my skin is balmy, and my lips are quivering.
“I’m… s-sorry,” I croak, blinking a hazy gaze up at him.
His grip loosens slightly, as if I’ve uttered the magic words. And he growls, “Say it again.”
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe. He loosens more. “Sir…”
A hum rumbles from within his throat, dark eyes falling to my mouth.
I feel like I’ve been strung up by my feet. My blood is rushing, fire burning me from the inside out, flushing my entire body until I’m sweating.
I can’t believe this is happening to me again…
“Why do you insist on testing my patience, inmate?” He finally releases my throat, sliding his fingers to cup my jaw. “You know how much worse I can make things for you…”
I don’t really know what he’s talking about. It barely even seems like he’s talking to me…
And yet, I nod. Rippling with fear, but also some bizarre heat. “I know.”
“Is it because you… like it?” Fingertips brush over my bottom lip.
I can’t move, let alone speak. There’s no way I can admit this out loud… Because it’s fucking crazy.
The Ivory moves back a bit, reclining in his chair as he gazes down at me curiously, still touching my mouth. “You don’t have to say it, I suppose…” He sighs. “But you will stay down there until some part of you gives me what I want.”
Blinking up at him, I’m buzzing from head to toe. Shivering and shaking, my head is spinning off of my body with a whirlwind of memories… A collection of secrets at the forefront of my consciousness.
And this time, when his fingers trace the seam of my lips, they part. And I let him stuff them inside.
Fuck…
My mind sighs as my body unfurls. Like it’s finally being fed after far too long wasting away in captivity.
In an instant, I’m lost. Wandering through the darkest mist of my deepest, most confusing desires. I suck on his fingers, desperately, my cock already rock hard and visible. But I don’t care.
Whatever. I’m done fighting.
This is always how it happens… It keeps bubbling, rising to the surface until it inevitably boils over, and I just… overflow.
“Mmm… I knew you wanted it, pajarito,” he croons, thrusting his fingers in and out of my mouth, rhythmically slow. I have no clue what that word means, but my mouth is sloppy wet, and I’m fucking crumbling. “There’s no point in running. I’ll always catch you.”
H-huh…?
“Mm-mm,” I object, shaking my head. Though it’s obvious bullshit because my dick is straining against the flimsy material of my jumpsuit pants and I’m sucking hungrily on his fingers like a needy slut.
He rumbles, one of those chuckle sounds, tugging them out carefully. I whimper, and he faux pouts. “You might be my favorite of all the damaged souls in this place, you know that?”
“Why?” I whisper, dazed and burning with shame. “Because I’m easy prey…?”
“Oh, far from it, my angry boy.” He soothes me with a soft touch, threading fingers through my hair. Then he yanks it, hard, and I mewl from the delicious pain. “Your brokenness is your best quality.”
The rationality in my brain knows that none of this falsified praise is real. He’s using me, toying with me for his own sick amusement. I’m not stupid.
But the cold hard truth is that ever since the moment that got me locked up here—the night I gave in to my truth and lost my life for it—I’ve been begging for a reason to feel again. Searching for my next secret.
Anything to get me as high as he did.
The Ivory tugs me closer by my hair, while his other hand works on his belt. “Show me your sorrow, shadow creature.”
I barely even recognize where I am, or what I’m doing anymore. All I know is that my mouth is filling with saliva as he pulls out a very, very long dick…
And shoves it between my waiting lips.
Taking it with a startled grunt, my cock instantly leaks in my pants. The sensation of smooth flesh covering a deliciously hard object resting on my tongue has my eyes rolling back in my head. And before I can overthink it, I’m bobbing. Sucking and chasing, while reacquainting myself with this action.
It’s been a while—not that long—but it comes back to me quickly, like muscle memory. Relaxing my throat, I let him slide back, gagging a little, but gulping all the same. The taste of salt and clean, soft flesh wrapped around a thick, solid shaft curls my toes and throbs my balls.
I swear to God, I could have a full-blown orgasm just from this. Or a million little ones, either way.
I don’t get it. I don’t fucking understand this need, and I never have. But I’m also not trying to think about anything right now.
No labels, no consequences.
No fighting.
Just fucking.
“Greedy boy,” The Ivory purrs while fucking in and out of my mouth. I catch a spurt on my tongue, and I groan, sucking it all out and swallowing as he growls, “Hungry boy…”
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. And every single thing I was just feeling is stomped out in an instant of fast, petrified regret.
Oh God, oh Jesus… Who is that??
They’re gonna see me in here. They’re gonna know, and they’re gonna tell someone.
Everyone is going to find out what I do, who I am, what I am.
My secrets will all be exposed, and then I’ll just be…
Out in the open.
